I'm old, yo.
God help me, I just said yo. I don't know how to say yo. Yo is not a word your Mare uses. Much. Ever. At all.
So, it all started with Sunday's issue of The Toronto Star. Right there, over my third or fourth morning coffee, right there in the paper for Lordy's sake, not even in the Life section or anything! It was a full page feature on page six, detailing to the entire world that I'm OLD!
Ok, so it goes like this, see: In an article headlined "Forever Young syndrome", the idea that "North American society is in the 'final silly stages' of the cultural disease known as obsession with youth" was presented in all of its bloody black and white. Youth culture, apparently is just running amok through society, and perpetual adolescence has become normal - and not just for stupid firkwitty men!
"People," says Marcel Danesi the expert in question, "are simply not growing up."
Well. We-yell. Isn't that dandy? Nobody's growing up, nobody's growing old, we're all Peter bloody Pans, flitting around in super-low-rise jeans encrusted with diamonds on the arse that spell out Princess, and we pepper our speech with words like 'props' and... and... and... 'represent'... and... and... bling bling!!
I don't know how to use these words, poppets! I don't know how!
And you know what the worst part is? The article had a lovely little sidebar with a quiz asking, "How young are you? Take our trivia test and find out!" Six multiple choice questions, poppets. Six. Go ahead. Ask me.
Shaddup. I don't want to talk about it. Here they are. If you can answer them, you will have my undying respect. If you can answer them and you are over 21, I'll write you a dirty limerick.
1. If Tina and Ken snuck into an abandoned train station to do some throw-ups, they'd be...?
2. Inu-Yasha is...?
3. What in the hell is Initial D?
4. DuWop Venom Flash is...?(Ok, I have a slight idea what that is, but... no. No, maybe not. What is it?
5. Tension X is...?
6. The Young And Hopeless is...?
See? This is where I shrug and blush and maybe shift from one foot to the other, positively marinating in my own squardom. Marinating!
I'm old, yo. And I ain't frontin', either.
(Was that right? Did I use that right? Also, I’m pretty sure that my milkshake is indeed better than yours. In fact, the only thing that’s stopping me from shouting out that, damn right, it certainly is better than yours is that… well… what’s my milkshake?)
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